Drive You Baby
by acaelousqueadcentrum
Summary: It's been a long, long week.


It's late, so late.

But it's the first night you've had free in more than a week. The first night you're not on patrol or on stakeout in a van with Dov or Chris or some other idiot.

You're tired and cranky and you smell like stale coffee and Chinese takeout, but none of those things matter now. Because you're free, for a whole week you're free. And the only thing you want now, for the next week—fuck, forever—is the feel of Holly's soft, warm, silky skin against yours.

You've been dating for three months now.

You've slept together twice. Once in her bed, after a pleasant dinner out and a walk and then an invitation into her house for a nightcap that you both knew would only lead to becoming intimately familiar with the thread count of the gorgeous doctor's sheets. Sleeping with Holly, having sex with Holly—it had been the best sexual experience of your life. It had put everything before to shame, and when you think of your previous lovers, Nick and Chris and that ill-conceived one-night stand, you just feel sorry for them, because they clearly have no idea what sex should really be like. Hot and fun and loving all at once. Something that leaves you breathless on the bed, staring up at your doctor's hooded brown eyes and feeling something change, something inside you, deep inside. You knew in that moment that you could never go back, you could never again be the woman you were before Holly Stewart walked into your life.

The second time, a few days later, had been in the shower, and this time you'd taken the lead. In your few days apart, Holly busy with a bunch of bodies being left across the seedier areas of downtown Toronto, you'd put your free time to good use. A good pair of headphones, a fully-charged laptop, even a new lock on your door at the apartment, and you'd delved into the world of online lesbian porn. It had been … educational, to say the least. At first it was kind of hit or miss, and you'd learned very, very quickly which sites pandered to men and which sites did not. But, after a couple of hours, and some of the most embarrassing questions you'd ever typed into the Google search engine (incognito, of course) you considered yourself fairly ready for round two.

So you'd used the key she gave you early in your friendship and made yourself comfortable—a pair of her yoga pants and one of her old high school track t-shirts—while you waited. And when Holly got home, exhausted and expecting to just fall into bed for a few hours before going back to work, you'd greeted her at the door and gently pulled her inside before leading her up to the bathroom on the second floor and slowly stripping her out of her clothes. And then in the shower, after you gently washed her body and rinsed the shampoo and conditioner out of her hair, you backed her up slowly until her ass rested against the steam-warmed wall, and on your knees before her, you put all that new knowledge to use. You made her whimper, and her knees weak. You made her scream, and her whole body limp. Supporting her weight, you kissed your way up the warm, wet skin of her body before turning the shower off and wrapping the sleepy woman up in a soft, fluffy towel and then putting her to bed.

But that was more than a week ago, and finally, finally the case that had consumed the whole division was over, the suspect interrogated and arrested and charged. The autopsies were all over. And, at last, at fucking last you could do more than dream of the scent of Holly's skin, the feel of her hair tickling at your breasts.

Tonight, you are going to fall into bed with your girlfriend, and wrap her arms around you as the two of you sleep for at least the next twelve hours. And tomorrow? Tomorrow you're going to pin Holly to the bed, wrap her hands around the spindles of her iron bed frame, and reacquaint yourself with all the parts of her body that you haven't been able to stop thinking about since the last time you'd tasted her skin.

When you slide your key into the lock and open the door, you hear a heavy, rhythmic thumping coming from the upstairs, the kind of bass beat you can feel echo through your blood. The whisper of a woman's voice, low and seductive, over the notes guides you up the stairs, your feet moving to the tempo of the music unconsciously.

Your pulse begins to rise as you climb the stairs, your skin begin to heat.

You recognize this song, you know it intimately.

The last time you heard it, Holly's head was between your legs, her tongue tapping out a rhythm on your clit in time with the beat, her heavy breath hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

She doesn't hear you approach, doesn't hear you come to the threshold of her bedroom and stop, absolutely enthralled by what you've found.

Holly.

In her bra.

On her bed.

Masturbating.

Her eyes are closed and her tongue is licking along the line of her bottom lip as one hand pinches at her cotton-covered nipple and the other hidden in the space between her thighs, moving steadily. Her legs are bent and planted firmly against the mattress, and her body supported by her shoulders as she pumps her hips into her thrusting hand, and you know she's close.

You remember bringing her to this point yourself, and you know that if you were to look into her eyes right now, they would be black with a desperate arousal.

Your hands curl at your sides, itching to join her, itching to replace her fingers with your tongue, itching to feel the weight of her breasts in your hands, to feel the hard points of her nipples under your thumbs.

But you stay still.

Paralyzed with desire, you watch as she brings herself closer and closer to the edge.

And then, poised on the edge, Holly opens her eyes.

And screams.

"Jesus Christ, Gail," she says once she calms down a bit, her pulse still racing and her skin still flushed with arousal.

You apologize profusely, for surprising her, for watching, for interrupting, but she shrugs it all off.

"You want to join," Holly asks, holding out a hand to you from the bed, imploring you to climb up onto the bed with her.

And you want to. You do.

But you just discovered something, something else you never expected.

Watching Holly? Watching her touch herself, watching her touch the skin you are aching to touch, watching her bring herself to the edge?

Is hotter than you ever thought it could be.

And half of you wants to say yes, and strip off your clothes and join her on the bed. Wants to join her and let her discover the warm wetness pooling in your panties and the diamond-hard points of your nipples. Let her feel how fast your heart is beating just from watching her.

But the other half of you, the other half of you wants to shake your head no and pull up the sturdy chair in the corner of the room right to the edge of the bed and watch as she starts again from the beginning.

You clear your throat, press your shaking hand against your heart, and bring your eyes up to meet hers.

"After," you say, your voice strangely high-pitched and strained, and undo the buttons of your shirt with trembling fingers.

She looks at you for a moment, her face betraying nothing, and then nods with a small smile, eyes sparkling in the dim light of the room.

Holly throws some pillows up against the iron frame of the headboard, and settles back against them, letting her legs fall open while you undo your belt and let your trousers fall to the floor. And then you're in your bra and panties and socks, and sitting in a hard-backed, sturdy chair at the end of the bed that you've brought over from the corner of the room.

You should be embarrassed, you think, to be sitting here in your underwear across from your mostly naked—nope, naked, you correct yourself as Holly slowly, slowly undoes the front clasp of her bra and slips it off to dangle on the edge of her finger—your naked girlfriend, asking her to touch herself in front of you, for you.

But you don't.

You don't.

Instead, all you feel as you watch her take her breasts into her hands and squeeze, as you see the flush of heat spread from her cheeks, down her neck, and into her chest, is turned on. All you feel as you let your eyes trace her form, from the gentle waves of dark brown hair at her head to the wild curls and the slightly reddish tint of the hair that covers her sex is hot, and desperate, and excited.

And then as she trails her hand down her body, as she parts herself for you and draws a single finger through the glistening sheen of wet arousal you can see there, you swallow hard and curl your hands around the hard wood of the seat.

This is definitely better than what you had planned.

Definitely.


End file.
